


A Little Love to Share

by Paia_Loves_Pie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky comes home, Bucky deserves a happy ending, Bucky likes modern technology, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Angst, Polyamory, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-OT3, Relationship Negotiation, This is really quite fluffy, the internet is not helpful on the subject of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26472217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/pseuds/Paia_Loves_Pie
Summary: In which Bucky Barnes comes home, has an epiphany, fights with his brain, has a lot of feelings about it, and then manages to arrange things to his satisfaction.OrNobody said coming home was going to be easy. He just didn't think figuring out all this love stuff was going to be the trickiest part.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 73
Kudos: 120
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. March

**Author's Note:**

  * For [picklesandsweetpea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/picklesandsweetpea/gifts).



> For picklesandsweetpea who requested a Get-Together fic

**Part 1**

Bucky didn’t mean to be weird. But most days, his brain just thought some wild thoughts, and there was no controlling it. Shuri had done a swell job putting his brain back inside his head, but there were some strange things in between the parts they took out - a limbo he got caught in sometimes, where being a functioning person was just an awful lot of work and his thoughts spun around and around and fixated on nothing useful.

Thank God for YouTube.

Bucky smirked and tossed a Werther’s candy at Sam. He startled (for the fourth time) and turned to look at Bucky with a scowl. 

Bucky also didn’t mean to be annoying, but, well. Sam was just too much fun to tease. 

“Sam.” 

“Ya.” 

“Sam, I’m going to feed the crows.” 

“No, you damn well aren’t! Those bastards have eaten my bird feeder dry, picked off all my strawberries, and terrorized the songbirds. Don’t you dare encourage them. All they do is pick fights with the squirrels.” 

“Maybe the squirrels deserved, it. Did you ever think of that?” 

Sam mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like it began with “ _ You deserve. _ ” 

Bucky tipped the tablet so Sam could see the video. It was about crows, and how they would leave you presents, and warn their family about intruders. Smart birds. He thought Sam would like them, but he had to admit even Sam had his faults. 

Sam grunted, acknowledging the coolness of the video, but not conceding his verdict. Bucky turned back to his tablet. He wished Google could answer all of his questions. Like why Sam’s cranky face did that squirmy thing to his insides. And how to make Sam like him more. He pondered for a while, clicked a few ill-advised articles, and then left the mysteries of the universe to watch the live-cam of the peregrine nest in New York. They’d been sitting on those eggs for a while. Should hatch soon. He thought he kinda knew how the eggs felt. 

He should go outside. 

He clicked to the next video to watch a fella build an obstacle course for squirrels. Maybe the squirrels were worthy adversaries after all. 

“Sam.” 

His sigh was so much sassier than necessary. “What.” The way he asked it wasn’t even a question. _Rude_. 

“Can I borrow your hammer?”

Bucky saved the video to his favorites. 


	2. April

**Part 2**

Bucky wasn’t supposed to know about the The Arrangement. Most of the time he helped Steve and Sam pretend they didn’t have an overly observant super spy with impressive hearing by feigning selective deafness. He helped maintain this myth by ignoring Steve’s complaints about hair in the shower and pretending not to hear when Sam blew kisses at Steve behind his back. It was better to keep the fiction. But the fact remained that Bucky was officially-unofficially under the custody of Sam and Steve, and the result was that someone had to stay and watch him while the other was deployed.

Idiotic, really. These days, Bucky was more interested in the latest episode of Bojack Horseman than doing any damage - Shuri had done a good job squishing his brains back inside him - but convincing a military tribunal that his murderous rage was effectively channeled mostly through Super Smash Bros was a hard sell.

The blaring alarm on Steve’s work phone was impossible to miss. (The phone was courtesy of Stark Industries. He kept trying to get his hands on one, but clearly Steve was the favorite son. Bucky had managed to get ahold of Steve’s personal phone though, and changed Steve’s ring tone to the sound of a donkey, but no one ever called Steve, so that joke hadn’t panned out yet.) The klaxon sent everyone into action. Steve answered the call for a quick sit rep, while Bucky went to retrieve Steve’s go-bag.

Steve snapped the phone shut and squirmed into his uniform. (Steve was an old grandpa who preferred the flip phone for reasons that escaped him entirely. They didn’t even make those anymore by the time the military thawed their geriatric popsicle. Maybe Stark had played a joke on Steve, too.) Sam, with gravitas that suited the moment, studiously ensured Steve’s ass looked great as he checked him over under the guise of “checking equipment”. 

The joke was on him. Bucky had all the equipment dumped out of the bag, and was carefully, swiftly repacking everything. If Steve was gonna go get in fistfights without his backup to watch his six (and all the other damn angles on the clock), then Bucky would be sure he was as prepared as possible.

  * Extra ammo
  * A gun (for fuck's sake Steve, learn to use a projectile)
  * Nonlethal crowd controls
  * Snacks
  * Bucky’s second-best extra handkerchief 



He zipped it shut and dumped it belligerently at Steve’s feet. 

“Don’t get shot.”

“I won’t get shot.”

“You always get shot.”

“I get shot _at_.” 

“That’s not better, Steven!” 

Steve’s face twitched and then Bucky found himself squashed against the world’s nicest pectorals, and if Bucky’s arms went around him for balance, it was no one’s business. Maybe he was off balance for a while, okay? The subtle tremble in his lip was seen by no one, and for once, Steve kept his yap shut and just smoothed a giant stupid paw over his back until Bucky had reassured himself that Steve’s chest didn’t have any holes in it. Yet. If Steve pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his temple and smoothed it over with his thumb, well. That was also no one’s business.

“You look after Sam for me, won’t you?” Steve said quietly, like a doofus, as though Sam wasn’t _right there_ and should rightly be _going_ _with Steve_ instead of staying home to babysit Captain America’s brain damaged BFF. Great. 

Bucky tried to school the sour look off his face and nodded. He’d hold down the fort. Sam needed someone watching his six, too. 

“Good. Now get outta here unless you wanna see some smooching.”

Bucky scrunched his nose in theatrical a yuck face and Steve laughed the silly way he did, with his head thrown back, hand over his chest, and it felt like victory. He mugged a smug face at Sam, who flicked him the bird (Ha! Bird. Bucky was funny.) and then ducked back down the hallway, closing the door to his room with an obvious click to let them know they had their privacy. Not that lack of privacy had ever stopped them before, exactly.

He sat on his bed. There was a loose thread on his track pants, which he tried (and failed) not to pick at while he tried (and failed) not to listen as Steve hauled Sam in, pressing their lips together, long and firm, and then mumbled sweet things at him before the screen door squeaked open to let two pairs of feet walk out together, and banged shut again. 

He lay down on the bed and smushed a pillow over his face, breathing deliberately and clenching his teeth. 

“Watch your back, Stevie. Don’t let Tony get you into anything stupid.” Sam’s voice was muffled by the door, but it wasn’t enough. He pressed the pillow harder until his nose was squashed and sparkles lit up behind his eyelids. 

“I’ll be careful, Sam. Don’t worry.” Stupid. Worrying was Sam’s M.O.. “You and Buck keep outta trouble for me, alright?” Bucky scowled into the fluff.

“Trouble’s about to walk out the door. Your bestie’s gonna be fine. We’ll do some macrame.”

Steve snorted a laugh, and so did Bucky, and then the motorcycle started up and roared down the driveway and away down the road. 

Screen door. Squeak. Footsteps. Slam. 

  
  
  


Breathe.


	3. May

**Part 3**

When Bucky felt overwhelmed, ignoring things sometimes worked for a while. If he tried real hard, sometimes he could block out the world and escape. He was a grown man. A world-infamous killer with dead-eye aim and a scowl that would stop a moose. He would survive an unspecified number of days without Steve. He hugged the pillow against his face, willing his breathing to slow down. For his sternum to stop spasming. 

Yeah, he huffed a laugh that was muffled directly back into his mouth. He was a real legend, alright. One who’d never really done all those adult things people these days (and in the old days, let’s be honest) liked to tout as the markers of adulthood. He was missing a whole swath of those badges.

  * Own a home
  * Graduate school
  * Buy a car
  * File a tax return
  * Marry a nice girl



Those were all bullshit anyway. He knew the things that mattered. 

  * Four ways to cook eggs
  * What to do when Steve had an asthma attack (irrelevant now)
  * How to braid hair (don’t pull too hard)
  * Three different tie knots
  * How to pack a bug-out bag
  * What all those special symbols on washing instructions mean (he Googled it) 
  * The right tone to say Yes, Sir when you really mean Fuck You. 
  * All the best ways to kiss Steve



That last one...he hadn’t done that this century. But he’d be lying if he hadn’t thought about it. Steve had caught him staring at them last week - Stupid not to keep his eyeballs where they belonged. 

He hoped Steve would let it go, but he’d never run from a confrontation in his life - a dumb wheezy chihuahua facing down a whole pack of German Shepherds. Only now Steve was a big dog, too. It was a small house and Bucky couldn't hide in his room all day. He was cornered in the living room while Sam had run out to the grocery store. (Bucky had handed him a neatly penciled list of requests, grouped by location in the store according to Sam’s usual shopping route. Sam had raised an eyebrow, but Bucky tucked a hundred dollar bill in under his thumb and said  _ please _ real nice. 

  * Batteries (AAA) 
  * Paperclips
  * Banana-Orange juice (If you can’t find it, don’t get the regular orange juice. It’s not the same thing)
  * Greek Yogurt (plain, 32oz)
  * Salt (not that fancy shit - just regular salt)
  * Plantains (NOT bananas, for chrissake)
  * Blueberries (check for mold)
  * Spinach (none of that dandelion mix nonsense)



He was  _ very busy _ folding laundry. It took all his concentration - no time for awkward conversations. Bucky liked taking care of clothes. Making order from disorder. Tidy lines and color coordinated piles. He’d put them away later but he liked to see everything lined up together. Marie Kondo had very good advice.

“Hey, Bucky?” Steve’s tone was faux-casual. He never did get the hang of acting. 

Bucky very carefully smoothed out the shirt in front of him. Sam's Air Force tee. Gray and worn and soft. He was extra careful with it.

“Buck.” The tone was edging toward exasperation, but to be fair, that was Steve’s default mode. 

It was very important that the shirts be arranged in color order, but honestly that was a moot point when all your shirts were varying shades of blue and grey. Bucky made a mental note to sneak something colorful in Sam’s drawer later. 

“Bucky.” Determined this time. “Stop.” Steve sat down among the clothing piles on the floor, careful not to disturb them. He reached out and touched Bucky's wrist softly stilling Bucky’s nervous plucking before he knocked his stack over.

The carpet suddenly became very interesting to look at. 

Steve’s thumb smoothed over the back of his human wrist. 

Bucky's face flamed in shame. “I’m sorry, ok?” Geez. What more did he want? Steve was Sam’s fella now. He knew. It didn’t make it hurt any less, but he’d behave himself. He picked at the carpet. 

“Things ain’t the same now. I know that, Stevie.” 

Steve was quiet for a minute, hearing more than what Bucky was saying. "Did you want it to be?”

"No!" Bucky said loudly. Too loud. "I mean.  _ Fuck.  _ Yes, ok? But I’m not - it’s not like that, Stevie.” It definitely was  _ exactly _ like that. “You’re it for me. 'Til the end of the line, you know?. But you two - that’s something special. Sam is a special fella, and I don’t want to get in the way of that. He takes real good care of you. Was here for you when I couldn't be." Bucky pinched his thigh with his metal fingers, trying to get through it all before he chickened out. He took a breath. Why was it so hard to breathe? Steve was the one with the asthma. “I’m not that kind of asshole, Stevie, you know that, right?” It was very important that Steve know that.

"Buck, it's okay. Everything is okay. Okay?" Suddenly, Bucky was angry. 

"Things aren’t okay just because you say they are!” His volume was rising. “You might be a captain, but you can't just dictate people’s feelings, Steve. Sam did not sign up for this...for. Me." He gestured to himself, the motion encompassing...a lot of things.

"Okay," Steve said again, in a dumb, pacifying tone as he rubbed his thumb over Bucky's wrist. "You're right - I can’t speak for Sam. But bringing you here was  _ his _ idea first - not mine. Maybe things are confusing right now, but whatever else is going on, you have a home here, Bucky. With us. With both of us. We’ll figure the rest out, OK?" 

Bucky couldn't look at him because if he moved, he’d punch something.

"Don’t tell him." Bucky turned his hand to grab Steve's in a strong grip. "Promise me."

Steve suddenly looked...uncomfortable. "Me and Sam... I don’t…” His breath whooshed out of him. “We don’t have any secrets, Bucky. Sam knows we used to be sweethearts, ok? He knows about us. Knew before I brought you home - what we were - are - to each other."

Great. Now Bucky would be a homewrecker and when he became homeless and everything went up in flames, he’d start a new list - his adulthood fuckups. He took his hand back from Steve to smudge it over his face, stuffing all the things he wanted to say back in his big fat mouth. Bucky wanted to say a lot of things. 

  * Can I have a hug?
  * Why are you being so calm about this?
  * I’m not a bad guy (except he kind of was)
  * I’ll stop looking at you (impossible)
  * I’ll stop looking at Sam (ugh, same)
  * Maybe I should move out (where would I even _go?)_
  * Please don’t send me away.
  * Can I kiss you?



Something must have shown on his face, because Steve pulled his hand away from his face, leaned in, and pressed his lips to Bucky’s, soft and gentle, like Bucky was breakable. (He wasn’t. Probably.)

"Trust me," Steve said, his face open and earnest and  _ awful _ . 

"I do."

Steve’s face shined with that big smile that hadn’t changed one bit since he was small. Bucky had to be done with feelings for the day immediately. 

What he said was

“You knocked over my laundry, asshole.”


	4. June

**Part 4**

And now he was stuck in a house with his kind-of-ex boyfriend’s boyfriend who may or may not know that said dubious ex boyfriend kissed him, and the next few days were going to be a  _ disaster. _

A knock on the door was the worst sound in the world. 

“Hey, if you’re done being dramatic in there, I could use your help cleaning out the gutters.”

Bucky threw his pillow and it thumped weakly against the door. 

“Yeah, I’ll be right out,” he called. Because he wasn’t an asshole. 

“Just keep swimming,” he sang softly to himself as he rolled off the bed with a thump. 

He could add  _ cleaning gutters _ to his Adulty Things list. Yay. 

He tucked a shiny bottle cap he’d been saving in his pocket to leave for the crows when Sam wasn’t looking.

Bucky had to admit, Sam knew him pretty well. Asking him for help was a surefire way to get Bucky to leave the house. The inertia of misplaced Catholic guilt was a powerful force, enough to propel him out of the house (whistling the Heigh-Ho tune because he liked to see Sam’s eyebrow twitch) and put his strength to use, helping Sam crawl around the roof like a monkey to clear the drain spouts.

“What do you mean, you don’t like heights?”

“Listen here, pal. I fell off a mountain and died. Gimme a break.”

“But you were a sniper!” 

“Look, they didn’t call me the Winter Albatross, okay? Shut your yap and scramble up there - I’ll make sure you don’t fall.” Wise guy. 

And he had to admit as he braced the ladder for Sam, the view had its perks. Sam filled out his jeans in a way that was impossible to miss, and from here, he had a view up his tee shirt, a peek of soft smooth skin that short circuited his brain. Bucky spent a hot second wonder what it would be like to shove a hand up there - or his mouth - then firmly slapped his brain and schooled his face. 

It was hot as hell, outside, and humid to boot. Within minutes they’d sweated through their tee shirts and only Bucky’s super healing protected him from a sunburn. After the gutters, Sam enlisted him to tinker with the lawnmower until the motor stopped making that sputtering sound. 

Sam found him laying flat on the floor of the garage half an hour later. The cool from the cement seeped into him. He wasn’t really overheating - his body couldn’t do that anymore, but it felt nice anyway. He heard the man approaching - knew the sound and cadence of his steps and the sound of his jeans. What he didn’t hear was the water pistol in Sam’s hand, which emptied a stream of cold water directly up his nose in exactly 2 seconds. 

Sam lost the ensuing chase, and he lost the water pistol, and then he lost his composure, giggling like a madman in the back yard, covered in bits of grass and a wet tee shirt that stretched over his chest in a way that hooked behind Bucky’s stomach. Bucky had to swallow hard.

Despite his best efforts, hypervigilance settled over him like a hum toward mid afternoon, crawling up into his bones and twanging in the back of his mind, louder and louder. Objectively, there was no danger within miles of Sam’s house, but the alarm shrieking inside of him refused to be silenced. He ended up awkwardly following Sam around the house, trying to ease his need to keep the man in sight without being bothersome. He’s not sure he managed, but Sam didn’t complain.

Perhaps out of pity, Sam ordered pizza for dinner (with mushrooms - a deep sign of affection on Sam’s part) and then ordered Bucky to sit down on the sofa. He did, glad for a bit of direction, and simultaneously ashamed that it was necessary. Sometimes he missed the simplicity of never thinking - having his brain wiped clean. Sam gave him an evaluating side-eye and then queued up a Planet Earth documentary. He skipped past every episode until the last one, with the deep sea animals. They’d seen them all by now, but Bucky had a special love for the weird monsters under the sea with their strange eyes and bizarre adaptations and the way they invoke both fear and awe. Despite himself, he found the idea of the cold, deep pressure surrounding him to be relaxing. His therapist assured him that even though his experiences with the cold had unfortunate roots, he was allowed to enjoy those feelings anyway if they brought him comfort. Some conditioning, despite Shuri’s efforts, remained. And so he let his brain float down, down, down to the bottom of the ocean where the monsters lived their lives in the dark.

After a few minutes, the tension in his muscles began to slide away, leaving him lightheaded and tired. With every breath, his limbs went slacker, drooping him closer and closer to Sam, eventually sliding down on the couch until he was lying sideways, head at Sam’s hip. They weren’t touching, really - Bucky’s legs dangled over the arm on the other side to make room - but only just. Sam, to Bucky’s relief, said nothing. Bucky closed his eyes, just listening to David Attenborough’s voice, lulling him with the draw of science and fascination. Too interesting to fall asleep, but too soothing to be entirely alert. Sam was a warm press on his scalp. His toes were going a little numb from where the blood flow was restricted behind his knees. The episode ended and Season 2 began to auto-play. Islands with the diving iguanas running for their lives. Then the Mountains episode with the goats that clung to cliff sides with their toes, and when Sam began yawning a little too often, Bucky had mercy and un-draped himself from the couch, and wandered to his room, clicking the door shut.

Although his muscles had become loose and his brain was static, sleep wouldn’t come - he was caught in a twilight limbo. He heard the familiar sounds of Sam going through his night routine in the en-suite. Brushing teeth. Flushing the toilet. The clunk of the bathroom cabinet, the creak of the bed frame, the click of the lamp. He waited until everything had gone quiet, when Sam’s breathing became even and slow. Bucky timed his breaths with Sam’s, trying to ease himself into sleep, too. But Steve wasn’t here, and the on-point soldier inside him wouldn’t drop his guard.

Two hours were spent lying still and quiet...and awake. 

The floor creaked when he finally crept out of bed and decided to indulge his impulses. Just this once. If he wasn’t sleeping here, he might as well not-sleep there. The floor in the hallway across from Sam’s door wasn’t comfortable, but the tight feeling in his chest eased the moment the door was in sight. And he waited. An hour later, Bucky closed the sudoku on his phone and sat up straight. He heard:

  * A thump against the wall. 
  * Hitched, uneven breathing
  * Rustling sheets
  * A sniffle 
  * A thump on the floor



And then the door handle was turning and Bucky wasn’t sure if he should stay or go. Which would be less embarrassing. Less weird.

“What the hell, Barnes!” Sam said, pressing a hand to his chest and rubbing his surprise away. "Why are you sitting out here like the worlds creepiest gargoyle?” Bucky wasn’t offended - that was basically true. “Everything okay?” Obviously a rhetorical question. Okay people don’t hover in the hallway outside their kind-of-boyfriend’s boyfriend’s room at two in the morning. Sam’s face was creased from the pillow, his short hair a little clumped on one side. It was cute, despite the stress lines around his mouth and the corner of his eyes.

Bucky didn’t say anything, just rose gracefully from the floor, acting as though this was all going according to plan. Ha. As if he had a plan for this. (He didn’t. But he did have an idea.) He turned and walked out to the kitchen, checking behind him to make sure Sam had followed.

“Have a seat,” Bucky said, pointing to the kitchen table. He knew what to do about feeling bad, and all of the best solutions ended in food. And Bucky knew about food. Sam sat down where Bucky pointed, doing as he was told for once, and perched his chin on his fist, looking at Bucky with bleary eyes, haunted by the ghosts in his dream. 

First things first. The answers to a lot of problems in life, he’d learned, could be found in the fridge. He poured Sam a glass of milk and popped it in the microwave, stopping it a half second before the world's most annoying beep. He thanked his stars for the recipe he’d added to his Pinterest. 

  * 10 ounces whole milk (warmed)
  * ~~1.5~~ 2.5 ounces dark rum
  * 1 drop vanilla extract
  * A spoon of brown sugar (then stir)
  * Sprinkle of nutmeg 
  * Sprinkle of cardamom 



Sam’s appreciative hmming noise caused Bucky to do an immediate about-face. He stuck his face in the pantry until he could behave himself, setting out the ingredients he needed for part two of his plan, and mixing everything together according to a recipe his hands knew. He didn’t need Pinterest for this one. 

Sam smiled up at him, sleepy and grateful when Bucky slid a plate of warm pancakes under his nose, and Bucky's lungs clenched. He begged for his face not to be doing something awful. Turning around to pull the syrup out of the microwave was suddenly very important. Deep breaths. It would all be okay. He set the syrup on the table and took a seat in front of his own plate. 

This was fine. It was all fine. Bucky would look after Sam, and he would behave himself. Then Sam took a bite and groaned - and Bucky's heart beat triple time. 

“These are ‘mazing” Sam mumbled through a mouthful. Bucky knew that, but it was nice to have an appreciative audience. (Steve liked them too, but Steve had no tastebuds and therefore his opinion was suspect). Watching Sam eat, though, was satisfying in a way that Bucky refused to examine too closely. He could feel his ears starting to itch uncomfortably. He focused on cutting his pancakes into precise bites, even and square, keeping his gaze on his plate and his mouth quiet by stuffing a bite in before he said something stupid and revealing and  _ vulnerable _ .

"'S nothin'" he mumbled, swallowing first because he wasn't a heathen like some Stevens he could mention. The pancake melted in his mouth in an intoxicating wave of buttery carbohydrates and maple sugar. At least he could get this part right. They really were amazing.

“Well you can make me pancakes anytime,” Sam said, as his look turned speculative. “You wanna talk about why you were outside the door?” 

Absolutely not. 

Sam took his silence and parsed it. Bucky felt exposed. 

Then, “You’re not alone, you know, just because Steve’s not here.”

Bucky would rather take off his arm than discuss his codependency right now, but Sam was very gently digging into a fresh wound. 

Bucky shook his head quickly. “It’s nothin',” he deflected again. Sam stared at him - he could feel it. He must have seen something because his tone went real soft in a way that hurt even worse somehow.

“You sure?”

Bucky tapped the tines of his fork on his plate, dragging a design in the syrup. He mustered some words up. “Yeah. I just...” he trailed off, struggling to explain it because not every feeling felt like something else. “I know he’s fine - probably fine - but my body won’t sleep.” He put his fork down and scrubbed impatiently at his face with his human hand. “I figured if I was awake anyway, I’d...keep watch...and that seemed to...uh...help?”

Sam knew about hypervigilance. About sleeplessness. About knowing a thing that your body doesn’t believe. About missing somebody with your whole instinct.

“You missing Steve?”

Bucky nodded. Always. “Miss” didn't even cover it. There was a Steve-shaped hole in his reality and nothing else was that shape. It sat there, in the corner, staring like a cardboard cutout of Richard Simmons. Unignorable. 

“Me too." 

Relief swept through him. Sam’s quiet admission was comforting, in a way. Proof that if someone as normal as Sam felt it, then maybe Bucky was doing okay. 

They finished their plates without saying anything else - apparently the mutual agreement that the house was too quiet without Steve tromping around was too much emotional communication to handle for the hour. Bucky was grateful. The dishes were left in the sink for later. Even Sam, who was religiously tidy, would give it a pass until morning. Well -  _ actual _ morning.

“ Think you’ll sleep now?” Sam asked through a yawn. His eyes were droopy, and his shoulders had unclenched from their post-nightmare tension, sloping as his body relaxed. The warmth and the alcohol and the carbs were doing their job, running hot through his system and crashing it quickly.

“Probably not,” Bucky confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Told Steve I’d watch out for you." 

Sam made a tsking noise against his teeth. He scratched his chest. Bucky tried not to fixate on how his undershirt stretched across it. “You don't need to do whatever Steve tells you," he said. "He's full of dumb ideas." 

Bucky nodded. Both of those statements were objectively true. 

"I don't like the idea of you camping out in the hallway, though. If you need eyes on me, we can kill two birds with one stone. God knows the bed’s big enough.” 

When he'd first moved in, Steve gave Bucky a tour of the house. Their bedroom was mostly taken up by an over-large double king they'd invested in once Sam figured out what a starfish Steve was. Bucky wasn’t any bigger than that. He supposed they could both spread out without touching if they wanted to. Bucky wouldn't think about whether or not he wanted to. 

He nodded in a way that was both wary and desperately grateful. Having Sam in his sights had eased his anxiety considerably and the thought of him putting a door between them again made his skin itchy. All the same, this was bound to be a little weird. Apparently Sam thought so too - he didn’t waste any more words talking about it - just stripped off his pajama pants, but kept his boxer briefs on in deference to the company. When Steve was here, Bucky knew they both slept in the nude (an unfortunate incident with a midnight malfunctioning fire alarm), but he wouldn’t be so vulnerable when Steve was away. And, well. Bucky wasn’t Steve, for all that they were kind of a pair. Sleeping with your boyfriend was way different than sharing a bed naked with his brain damaged BFF.

Bucky waited as Sam straightened out the sheets from where he’d twisted them in a mess and crawled in on the side next to the wall - they'd had to shove the bed all the way to one side to leave room for the dresser. Sam's house was nice, but the bedrooms were a typical size for the neighborhood, not meant to hold supersoldiers that sprawl. Sam rolled over and put his back to the room as Bucky stood next to the bed and waited for him to get comfortable, not sure how to approach getting in. Bucky considered his sweatpants, then decided against taking them off. He wasn't going to sleep anyway. He crawled in, oddly embarrassed as the bed dipped under his weight. He didn't bother to get under the covers, just scrunched them aside, making it clear he was only in the bed because there wasn't anywhere else to sit in the room. Definitely not because the sound of Sam's soft breathing was soothing. 

Sam settled in - he had a lot of pillows and took some time to find exactly the right spot to lay. His foot rubbed back and forth for a bit as he relaxed, sinking deeper and deeper. Bucky kept his breathing soft and steady, holding himself relaxed and still so he wouldn't be a nuisance, any more than he already was. Then Sam was out like a light.

Bucky crept out quietly a few hours later, when the light started to peek through the window and the birds started to shout. He made coffee, pouring a mug for himself, and set the pot to warm for Sam.

They didn't talk about it.


	5. July

**Part 5**

Steve came back. They still didn’t talk about it. 

Something had shifted. 

Other things were exactly the same. 

“Stevie, if you take one more piece of bacon, I’m going to super slap your super hands! The crispy ones are for Sam.”

He threatened Steve with a fork clenched in his real hand and slapped a towel at him as the jerk got wise and vacated the kitchen, obnoxiously crunching his stolen goods in a way that made his Bucky’s eye twitch in irritation. Bucky tucked his kitchen towel back over his shoulder and turned back to tend the pan. The fat hissed and popped as he nudged a piece ever so slightly closer to the center, scooted another one further away so it didn’t burn. Crispy ones for Sam. Softer ones for Steve. A piece of ham for Bucky.

“You make special bacon for Sam?” Steve asked from out of reach. Bucky scowled and gritted his teeth. It wasn’t like that.

“I make special bacon for you, too, pal,” he muttered.

“Yeah, but we’re…” Steve trailed off and Bucky held his breath. He really wanted him to finish that sentence. Google had a lot of words for how things could be now. Between friends and friends-with-benefits, and lovers and boyfriends and gay and polyamorous and open relationships and it was a lot to decide by himself. 

Sam entered the kitchen, the flush of the freshly showered radiating off him, and leaned against Steve, winding an arm around his waist into a sideways hug. Steve pecked his forehead and squeezed him with a little “mmngh” sound. 

“I hope you didn’t let Steve near the stove,” he said to Bucky, but he was looking up at Steve with a teasing smile that sent Bucky’s stomach into a wobble. He cracked an egg too hard and spent the next couple minutes digging shells out of the pan. Damnit.

“Bucky’s being a bacon terrorist,” Steve tattled like a jerk.

When Sam ducked in for a morning kiss, Bucky made sure to keep his eyes on his business. Heard the intake of breath as Steve pulled him close. It was weird to stare. He knew that.

“Stop hovering, Steve. Let the man cook.”

Bucky plated Sam’s breakfast. 

  * Eggs - Sunny side up, side by side
  * Extra crispy bacon (arranged into an arc underneath - a smile)
  * Toast (cut in rectangles not triangles, which was too bad because he coulda arranged them into ears) 
    * Half smeared with apple butter
    * Half just butter



He set it down at Sam’s seat. By some tradition, probably by right of owning the house, Sam always sat at the head of the table.

Steve’s chair was the one to the right side. 

  * Medium bacon - kinda wobbly - ugh
  * Overdone scrambled eggs with no salt or pepper - just hot sauce. (Bucky wasn’t sabotaging his breakfast, Steve just didn’t have functioning tastebuds and claimed he liked it that way), 
  * Triangle toast with butter and marmalade. 



Bucky sat across from Steve on the left. It let him eat with his left hand without elbowing over anyone’s juice. Wheat toast, whole. Scrambled eggs piled on top. Crispy honeyed ham. A little sprinkle of Vermont cheddar cheese from the farmer’s market. Some capers. Another piece of toast on top of that. Breakfast sandwich. He cut it in half and took a couple pictures for his Instagram.

“Steve, what I can’t figure out is how you both came from the same place, and you could burn water, while your buddy here is a gourmet chef. What gives?”

Bucky took one look at Steve, stuck between smug and embarrassed. Embarrassment won out and he flushed, stuffed his mouth with eggs, and resolved to ignore him for the rest of breakfast.

Steve made a big show of lifting his eyebrow. "Bucky used to cook for his family - help out with his sisters." He paused as something tumbled into place, and gave Bucky a thoughtful look.

“Well I appreciate it," Sam said, oblivious to the dawning realization happening next to him. "It’s nice to have another hand in the kitchen instead of you ruining my pots and pans all the time. Did I tell you how Bucky made us pancakes the other night?”

Steve raised both eyebrows and placed his big stupid chin on his big stupid fist, looking dramatically overly interested. Bucky kept his eyes on his plate and chewed the sawdust in his mouth.

“Is that right?” He drawled. Then took one glance at Bucky’s murder face and shut his big stupid mouth and ate his breakfast like god intended while Sam began raving about midnight carbohydrates.


	6. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all 5 of my readers ;) 
> 
> I treasure you.

**Part 6**

Sam knew something. And Bucky knew that he knew. He just didn’t know what it was. The internet continued to be unhelpful on the topic of how to date your not-boyfriend’s boyfriend. 

Sam stood a little closer these days, made eye contact a little longer. They were moving towards...something. Both agreeing that possibility was there, and advances were welcomed, but neither one crossed the invisible barrier between them, always circling from a distance. 

It figured that just when things were going well, Bucky managed to send it crashing down in spectacular flames. It had been months since Bucky had a real bad day - one where the words wouldn’t come and the memories crept in like cockroaches in the walls, and he stewed in a seething mass of frustration like a shaken can of soda with no release valve. He could feel it building in him, and Steve had the good sense to give him his space. 

He couldn’t say what caused it. One moment he was getting a cup for water, while Sam made lunch, and the next, Bucky detonated. The glass flew from his hand and shattered on the floor at Sam’s feet. Bucky was crouched, knife in hand, assessing for threats when he came back to himself an eternity and an instant later. Startled, Sam had jumped back out of reflex and landed square on a shard of glass. He hissed and hopped on his foot, crunching another piece under the other sole. Blood began to smear the tiles, and Bucky nearly spiraled again, this time into a panic. _Man down. Medic!_

He made a small thready noise in the back of his throat and held out a hand to Sam, cautioning him and pleading in the same motion, warning - asking him not to move. Sam held still as Bucky approached. He was wearing shoes and Sam wasn’t. (Normally no one wore shoes inside - Bucky agreed it was gross, but on bad days, Bucky felt safer in the knowledge he could run if he had to.) 

_Oh, god._ His feet were bleeding freely now, and Bucky could see his breathing had elevated. His brown eyes were soft and full of concern...for...for Bucky. He cringed inside. Bucky stood in front of him, holding tears back as he slowly reached out for Sam. Sam didn’t move as Bucky tucked both hands around his hips, careful _so careful_ with his grip, not to hurt, and lifted him deftly from the floor onto the kitchen counter behind him, feet safely off the floor. Bucky got a broom and swept up the glass shards meticulously as Sam’s feet dripped blood onto the floor. 

Bucky crouched down, gently lifting one heel, and then the other, looking at the damage. There were two good-sized cuts - not dangerous, but it was bleeding freely and it would need some time to heal. Sam would be unable to walk for a couple days at least. He controlled his lower lip as it began to wobble. This wasn't about him. 

"Stay," he ordered.

Bucky left the kitchen and dug under the bathroom sink for their first aid kit. He knelt down on the floor and gently cared for Sam’s feet, pulling the bits of glass out with tweezers, flushing the cuts with saline and then peroxide. Every hiss cut him, and he deserved it. He pulled out the gauze and wrapped the sole of his left foot. The big toe on his right. Handed him a glass of water and some Tylenol. Then he stood and moved into Sam’s space, meeting his eyes and wordlessly asking for permission - he wasn’t sure exactly what for. Sam gazed back, calm and a little sad. He reached out and curled a hand around Bucky's bicep, squeezing gently until Bucky was coaxed closer, until they were chest to chest, Bucky’s waist cradled in between Sam’s legs where he sat. Slowly, Bucky wrapped his arms securely around Sam's waist, gathering him close and guiding his legs to wrap around him and drape his arms over Bucky’s shoulders. Then, as though he weighed nothing (because sometimes Bucky's power came in handy) Bucky lifted and carried him from the kitchen to the sofa and set him down gently, setting his feet up on the coffee table where feet weren’t allowed to go. He paced around handing Sam all the things he might need. _Sorry. I’m so sorry._

  * Blanket (the crocheted one his ma made that lived folded on the armchair)
  * Hoodie (Steve’s)
  * Remote control (one for the television, one for the game console)
  * Bottle of water
  * Sam’s finished-but-forgotten sandwich
  * Throw pillow



“Sweetheart...”

The name stopped him mid-panic in the middle of the room, and Bucky held his breath. Sam had never said that to him before. 

“Bucky, come here.”

He could no more refuse than leave Steve again. He lay down on his side, facing the back of the sofa - his head rested high on Sam’s thigh and slowly his arms wrapped around Sam’s waist, settling into him. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could suffocate himself in Sam’s stomach. _(Don’t squeeze too hard.)_ It was wrong, to want comfort from the person he'd hurt - the one he was supposed to protect. He didn’t trust himself right now - but he trusted Sam. He wrapped the fingers of one hand into the hem of Sam's sweater and rubbed it between them. Focusing on the warmth of Sam’s leg against his cheek. The jersey knit texture of his sweatpants. The smell of Sam's skin and the lingering scent of rubbing alcohol on his hands.

“Want me to call Steve for you?” 

Bucky shook his head fiercely, tucking his face further into Sam’s hip until all the air was warm and stale and smelled like him. He didn’t need a babysitter. Even though he kind of _did_ want to hear Steve’s voice. The gravity of what had happened was slowly sinking in past the panic. Bucky _swore_ he used to be smooth, once upon a time. And now he’d been reduced to attacking the fella he was trying to romance. It was _awful._ HE was awful. 

“Ok, tough guy,” he conceded, then turned the TV to a rerun of Dog Cops (Clint was a bad influence). Bucky concentrated on breathing, smoothing out the hitching. Being still. His head felt fuzzy and staticky until Sam tucked his arm over Bucky’s shoulder, tucking him impossibly closer, and settled a broad palm over his scalp. One long, smooth glide of fingertips through his hair, and Bucky felt like his brain had been combed. Chest loosened. 

“You’re fine, Bucky. I’m fine... We’re all fine.” 

They remained like that - Sam dozing in front of the TV and Bucky hiding his dumb face in skin-warmed air - until Steve came home. When his customary greeting didn’t produce either of his housemates, he wandered into the den and found them curled up together. 

If ever there was a time to gain the power of invisibility, this was it. Unfortunately no such power manifested spontaneously (where was a villain with a ray gun when you needed one) and Bucky was subjected to the humiliating ordeal of being observed. He heard Steve pause, and from the movements of Sam's torso, he assumed there was some sort of nonverbal communication taking place over his head before Steve simply took the other end of the couch, lifting Bucky’s legs and setting them in his lap. Steve took his feet in his big paws and began unlacing his boots. 

_Ugh, rude_ \- he never should have put his big ugly boots on Sam's couch, but now, with Steve and Sam bookending him on both sides, he could stand down. The laces were gently tugged loose and the shoes dropped to the floor. 

His stoicism melted away as a thumb dug deep into his sole, firm enough that it didn't tickle. Steve’s other hand was clasped around his ankle, not tight, just holding - solid. Combined with the fingers trawling through his hair, Bucky felt embarrassingly like a feral animal being gentled. He wanted to object on principle, but it felt too nice. 

He squirmed for a moment. _Sweetheart_. His insides felt like the inflatable flailing wavy-arm-tube-man at the car dealership they always passed by on the way to the hardware store. Resisted the urge to bite Sam’s sweater. Scrunched his toes against the weight of Steve’s palm and then everything felt okay for a moment.


	7. September

**Part 7**

The fluttery bird feeling in his chest was _awful_. And he couldn’t stop seeking it out. At first he coped by scrolling though TikTok until he realized it was a doorway to some kind of twilight zone where time skipped and suddenly it was 8pm and he hadn’t eaten all day and he was still in his pajamas and he really had to pee. 

Sam was _everywhere._ And everywhere Sam was, Bucky wanted to be. Falling in love with Steve hadn’t been anything like this - loving Steve was like coming home, like getting in the bath, like breathing - a calming of the storm. Sam was like wildfire, like the prickles you got after your foot fell asleep, like having the hot sauce at Mama Tia’s when you knew it was going to hurt and you ate it anyway because it was _so good_ and it brought tears to your eyes. And Bucky was just a stupid moth bumping against the porch light. He wasn’t afraid, just bracing himself - you didn’t hang out with Steve unless you were willing to get a little singed. 

So he paced himself, sneaking in little touches here and there. Making Sam _notice_ him. 

  * Placing a hand low on Sam’s back when he had to pass by. 
  * Stroking the back of his neck when he was seated. 
  * Claiming a hug when one of them left the house. 
  * Walking out of the shower in the smallest possible towel (this was met with a very satisfying choking noise)
  * Finding excuses to adjust Sam’s clothing



When none of this resulted in the desired outcome (“ _Sweetheart”_ ), he stepped it up a notch. 

  * Stealing Sam’s tee shirts and wearing them in plain sight. 
  * Sitting as closely as possible on the couch.
  * Kicking his ass on Rainbow Road
  * Showing him the dumbest TikTok videos he could find
  * Inserting Sam’s face into obnoxious memes
  * Feeding the crows. 



Steve knew _exactly_ what was up - a longtime veteran of Bucky’s _pay attention to meeeee_ side. When Steve couldn’t stand it anymore and deemed Sam in need of space, Bucky was dragged onto his lap and squeezed into submission, like a cranky cat in the arms of a determined toddler, until he stopped. 

But Sam never _said_ stop.

It all came to a head the evening that Bucky discovered Spotify. 

“What’s that tune you been humming all day, Buck?” (Sam had begun calling him ‘Buck’ and he had a lot of feelings about it. )

“Dunno - I got the melody - bits of it, anyway - but I can’t remember the words. That tip-of-the-tongue thingy. What’s that called?” 

“I think it’s just called ‘tip of the tongue’.” 

Bucky stuck his tongue out, and waggled it.

“Keep your face like that and it might get stuck.” 

“Steve’s the only one allowed to say old timey shit around here anymore.” 

“Just shut up and gimme your phone.”

Turns out telephones could do all kinds of things these days, including identifying a song. He downloaded the app and coaxed Bucky into humming a few more bars. Then _bingo,_ there it was. 

“Is this your way of telling me to stop singing?”

Sam’s face went a little soft. A little shy. “Nah, you can sing at me all you want to.” His smile would stop traffic. 

If Bucky died, he hoped someone would conveniently make it look like a very clever, unavoidable assassination, and not just a heart attack triggered by an overabundance of very complicated emotions.

Sam ducked his face and downloaded a second app, then he pulled up the song Bucky had been singing and started a playlist. 

Bucky spent the whole day with his headphones in and his eyes closed, running through playlists of songs he remembered, songs he half-remembered, ones he thought he should remember and didn’t. When it all got to be too much, he crowded Steve in the armchair where he’d been drawing ( _Oooff_ , he grunted as he gained a lapful of one retired societal menace, as though he didn’t regularly lift twice Bucky’s weight for fun. Bucky punched him a little with the metal hand. But not too much.) and pulled out one earbud, offering it to Steve, sharing a memory he wished he had. When he forgot himself, he softly sang along, bobbing his toes and feeling the music in his body. 

His wiggles got to be too much and he was eventually evicted from Steve’s lap. He put the song on repeat a few times, doing a quickstep around the room.

“Remember this, Stevie?" he asked, pulling the plug on his headphones and setting it to play through the house’s Bluetooth speaker instead. He turned up the volume and tossed it to Steve to free up his hands.

“Yeah I remember how you left me with Delilah while you and Ruthie danced like you were makin’ time right there on the dance floor.”

“Aw, that was nothin. Ruthie just liked to dance, that's all. It's nothing like today. Have you seen how they do it now? It’s wild. No moves at all, just movement. I miss the old dancing.”

Sam interrupted. “You’ve only seen white boys dance. It’s damn shameful,” he scoffed.

“You saying you know how to move, Sammy?” Bucky felt bold, the brass beat of the tune bolstering something inside of him. 

“I ain’t so bad.” He had that mulish look, like when Steve goaded him into running faster, even though he knew he’d lose.

“Prove it.” Bucky held his breath and held out a hand to Sam. Sam flashed his lightning grin and pulled Bucky sharply into his chest. Bucky bit his lip as Sam put an arm around his waist and snugged him close. Steve beamed like a dope and turned up the music as Bucky started leading Sam through the steps he remembered. Sam was a quick learner, swift with his feet, and tossing an entirely inappropriate hip sway into the moves that sent Bucky’s blood thumping in a way that had nothing to do with exertion. Soon, Sam was pulling him into new moves, ones that involved thrusting and pressing, closer and closer until there was no room left between them, chests pressed together, breathing in each other’s space.

The music shifted to a new song. A slower song. Bucky shifted his grip, holding Sam around the back and stepping him backward into a slow dance. They twirled together until the song spun out into another one, and then another one. Their chests pressed into one another, pulling tight together. Sam opened his eyes, looking dazed, as though he wasn’t sure when they had closed. Bucky leaned in, and Sam met his lips in a soft press. Bucky smiled at him and reached in for one more. Then one more as they circled around slower and slower, coming to a stop in the center of the room as Bucky splayed his hands against Sam's back. They paused, face to face. Sam wet his lower lip. There was a momentary tensing in his body as the music shifted to a new song, one that was more uptempo. The mood seemed to seep out, but Bucky didn’t move away. Sam tightened his fingers in Bucky’s belt loop, both avoiding the escape they feared was about to happen. Bucky pressed a soft kiss to the side of Sam’s neck. _Please. Stay._ Sam’s quick breath in was all the answer he needed.

He looked over his shoulder quickly at where Steve was sitting on the couch - gauging his reaction. Steve just smiled back. He was relaxed, and his expression was quietly pleased, no jealousy or worry. It wasn't quite as simple as "what's mine is yours", because Sam was his own person. He could choose yes or no. But it seemed like maybe the answer was yes. Bucky eased back closer to Sam again, picking up the movements of the dance in a faster tempo until they were swaying along with the music again, a silly quick step with no artistry to it. 

They kept on like that until Steve broke in to step on Sam’s toes for a while, ignoring Bucky’s jeers from the sideline. Eventually Steve solved it by picking Sam up in his arms against his protests and swinging him about the room in a poor excuse for a waltz. Sam laughed so hard his torso curled.

Several death threats later, Steve put him down with a kiss of his own, then pulled Bucky in for a hug, pressing a kiss to the side of his head before wandering off to grab a glass of water.

Bucky lay down, taking up the full length of the couch, and sent a Snapchat to Natasha. Just a picture of his face, happy and flushed and dazed. No caption. Stars filter. There weren’t accurate emojis for this feeling.

She sent back a Snap of her own face, covered in fake sunglasses filter, sipping a Starbucks. 

  * Peach emoji
  * Eggplant emoji
  * Kissy face emoji
  * Smirk emoji.



He rested his phone on his forehead. Sometimes he hated her.


	8. October

**Part 8**

Bucky sniffed - the air was getting colder. He could see his breath now, and the birds he watched in the summer were starting to change over. It was still early, but they were out in force, making a racket in the trees above his head. The park bench was uncomfortable as always, but the sameness of it was its own comfort. No one was out this early except for the dedicated runners. His therapist had said that he should try to build an "outside" life. One that didn't revolve entirely around Sam's home, around Steve and Sam. She said he should work on setting his own daily routines and discover things he liked to do (apparently trolling Clint on social media didn’t count). It was funny that after all this time learning how to be with Steve and Sam, now he was trying to be _without_ them. 

The park was his first compromise. Somewhere to go that was close enough to feel like he could make it home quickly, but far enough to count as “away.” He liked the quiet, the early morning cold, the way it made his nose run just a little. It was only the birds and the early morning creatures, which now included him. Distant sounds of traffic as people made their way to work. Not every day, of course - sleeping in won out a good fifty percent of the time because memory foam was _amazing_. The first day, he left early, wanting to avoid the questions and the commentary and the offers of company. He loved them both, but sometimes they were A Lot, and it felt like too much to be inundated with looks and understanding and be perceived as he tried something new. He just wanted to take this step on his own, and if he hated it, to fail on his own. 

That first day, he'd locked Sam's house safely, and reset the alarm. He made it as far as the park, sat down, and hadn't gone any further since. Okay, he'd added in a stop at the little coffee shop on the way, because coffee was necessary for life, and even though he wasn't being exactly _stealthy_ , the early mornings required a hot drink in his hand. 

After a couple weeks, Steve began showing up on his coffee-drinking bench once in a while. Because Steve was _awful_ . And Bucky was embarrassed and grateful at the same time. Steve, thankfully kept his yap shut. Even Captain America was a little bleary eyed at six o'clock when he wasn't punching anyone. Just sat his beefy self on the other side of the bench, making the old wood shift alarmingly, swapped his coffee to his other hand, and took Bucky's human hand in his warm palm. Brought it up for a little kiss against his mouth (which did _things_ to his insides that felt like melting marshmallows in the microwave) then settled it on his lap. And they sat there. Safe. Quiet. Together. 

These were new times. Steve was different - from the war, from Brooklyn. And Bucky was a new Bucky. He had spent their whole life being _useful_ to Steve. Being needed by him. And now he wasn't. Well. Not in the same way. It made him feel adrift in a way the rest of the 21st century didn’t. But Steve's palm was solid. Warm. Steady. His breathing was free and clear, and Bucky's mind was his own, and now they had time to decide. What they wanted - and what they wanted to _be._ Find out what Bucky-and-Steve looked like now. Bucky-and-Sam-and-Steve. He had time. He had a home. And he couldn't keep circling the drain like this, following them around their lives like a puppy. It was time to find his independence. 

"Steve?" His breath shadowed in front of him. 

Steve squeezed his hand and looked over at him. 

"Stevie, maybe I should get a job." 

"If you want. You'd have to clear it with..." Steve made a vague motion that encompassed all government authority that might care about a geriatric rehabilitated murder machine. 

Bucky nodded, still at loose ends. 

"I don't know what I want to do, though. 'M just a dumb Brooklyn boy with holes in his head, out of his time."

"Well.” Steve squeezed their hands where they were clasped. “You always did like school. Y’sure helped me enough with my studies, anyway. You could...go to college?" 

Bucky wanted to laugh, _Poor kids don’t go to college_ , but then... it suddenly didn’t seem funny. His first instinct was instantly canceled out by the fact that he now had quite a lot of money, in fact, in back pay and POW compensation. He had a _pension_ (...and some other accounts they never talked about and couldn’t prove but he deserved _every penny_ of it). Plus, Sam had also told him about that GI credit stuff.

Steve left it at that. He knew the surest way to make Bucky shy away from something was to tell him what he _should_ do. The words crystallized in the air. Bucky kicked at the ground, a little. Sipped his coffee. 

Then Steve said the second smart thing of the day. 

"Wanna go to my gym?" _Fuck YES._

Bucky had no idea why it hadn't occurred to him that Steve must have a place to exercise that was set up for an enhanced human. 

"Only if you feel like getting your butt kicked, pal."

Steve's grin felt like morning. "That's how it's gonna be?"

Bucky smiled back. He didn't know how it was gonna be, but at least this was a start. He'd look at courses later. He had no idea what a guy like him would do with a degree, surrounded by kids a quarter of his age with none of his experiences. But the idea of learning was tempting. 

But first. Punching. 

They made it back to the house just in time to see Sam leaving with his travel mug in hand. He had to lead his morning session at the VA. Sam had invited Bucky along a few times, but Bucky didn't feel comfortable there. His trauma was a little different than average trauma, and airing it among strangers wasn't helpful to himself or to others. He had a therapist. He had Steve. He had Sam. That was enough for now. 

Steve rolled the bike out of the garage and they both wore helmets because that was the law, and Steve tended to be a stickler for the law only when it was most obnoxious. _Ugh, helmet hair._ Straddling the bike behind him was no bad thing, though. Bucky could keep watch, and keep his hands on Steve - something that settled a very deep need inside him as he hugged close. Steve reached back to pat his thigh when they stopped at a stop light. His stomach squirmed with an unnamed feeling. He squeezed back. 

Steve's gym was just outside of town, but the street lights made the ride take a little longer than Bucky had expected. It was down through a narrow alleyway in an industrial park. They rolled up to a nondescript chain link gate and Steve swiped his Starkwatch to roll the gate back and let them through. They wound through a bank of warehouses and Steve stopped at one without a name on the door - just a number on a frosted door. Steve scanned his watch again, and the door unlatched. Bucky wasn't prepared for the inside even though, knowing Stark, he should have expected it would be state of the art. 

All of the equipment was high tech and reinforced to handle Steve's super strength, plus a few unfamiliar items that seemed more custom than usual. Steve gave Bucky a little tour through the facility. It wasn't huge, but it had an obstacle course with high ceilings, the usual weights and treadmills, plus Steve's boxing equipment, which looked well-used. 

Bucky wrapped his fists. Then he reached out and wrapped Steve’s. Carefully, methodically. It wasn't necessary, really. He and Steve would both be fine, but the metal hand tended to cause damage, and that wasn't the goal today. Bucky just needed to let loose a little. Settle into his body. Feel his strength and use his dexterity without hurting anyone. Bucky didn't want to hurt people anymore - he knew that much. They put on sparring gloves, ignoring the helmets which, by the pristine condition, Steve never used anyway. 

Steve took the first swipe, not even trying for stealth. Bucky cackled and swerved out of the way, watching, assessing. He'd fought Steve before, of course, but not quite like this. Not after Steve got big and Bucky got poisoned with perverted serum. Images flashed through his mind in a series.

  * Folding Steve’s thumb carefully to the outside so it didn’t get broke
  * Tipping his face back as he wiped blood off Steve’s nose with his sleeve. (His mom was real mad about that stain - _James Barnes, you have a perfectly good handkerchief!_ )
  * _I had ‘im on the ropes, Buck._
  * _Sure you did, pal._
  * Fierce bright pain as Steve’s tiny ( _bony!_ ) little fist connected with his jaw



He'd been so bewildered (and frightened if he was being honest with himself) by the changes in Steve after the serum that he'd never gone one on one with his friend as he was now - not until the Soldier had a mission. They’d had enemies to fight, and he'd been trying his best to hide his own changes from Steve - the way he was always hungry, the way he could hear things he shouldn't have - scope out targets in the dark with pinpoint accuracy, run for miles and never get tired. Steve had chalked it up to Bucky's conditioning and training, but the truth was more sinister. 

Steve wasn't a subtle fighter - never had been. _Nothing_ about that punk was subtle. All his moves were telegraphed, but he was _fast_. Bucky hopped backwards out of the way of another swing, and grinned at Steve's frustrated noise when he failed to make contact again. He kept his hands up, but continued to dodge, giving up ground in the open padded floor, twisting and dodging each swipe and annoying the bejeezus out of his partner. Neither of them were breaking a sweat, but Steve started to smile, too, catching on to Bucky's little game. 

Steve had left his shield in their home locker with the firearms, so Steve didn't have the advantage of his little frisbee to increase his reach. (He claimed ‘no fair’ until Bucky waved a knife at him.) They were a well-matched pair and after a while, it began to feel like a dance. One with no winning or losing. Just moving together. Then Bucky started to fight back, meeting each strike with a deflection, not returning fire. Just touching Steve, feeling the strength of him, hearing him breathe over the droning sound of the industrial ceiling fans. Steve was starting to laugh now, his strikes becoming less accurate, but not stopping his advance. They settled into a rhythm of punch-and-block, Steve launching ridiculous jabs and Bucky slapping his hands away, giggling breathlessly at their little game. 

He felt light inside - something as simple as being able to face Steve, but it wasn't real combat and no one was getting hurt. This was _fun_. Fighting had never been fun before. He was always either hauling Steve out of scraps or trying not to get his head blown off, or aiming to kill. But this? It felt like joy. Bubbles tickled up inside as Steve failed to reach his center again. A wry smirk settled on Steve's mouth and then, in a sudden burst of motion, Steve ducked under Bucky's fists and tackled him straight to the floor, helping him down with a sweeping leg. Bucky saw it coming, but he let Steve bring him down to the mat, a little rough but the solid thud against his back felt grounding.

Suddenly they were pressed together, front to front. Steve's face was very close and he could feel his body, smell the deep scent that deodorant didn't cover - could feel his chest rising and falling with his breathing, feel him laughing. His smile was _right there_ and Steve's hands moved to brace himself above Bucky's body. Bucky moved without conscious thought, holding Steve's trim waist, parting his legs to let Steve settle where he once did. He took up a lot more space now, pressing Bucky's legs wide to accommodate him. 

Bucky felt his beard before he processed it, and they were kissing. Bucky's heart soared as their lips met, soft and gentle and breathy. It felt inevitable, like coming home, or maybe like they'd never been apart. Never been separated by time and war and ice and circumstance and memory and grief. It felt just the same - Steve a little bigger now, a body that matched the personality inside. Bucky cupped his face in both hands, still breathing hard from their sparring, and now breathing hard for a different reason. 

The touch of his lips breathed life into his chest where there'd been only dust before, for such a long, long time. He'd survived without Steve, and he'd been fighting to survive his whole life, it felt like, punching above his weight, against the odds. But now, in this time and space, he came to realize how much surviving wasn't the same as thriving, and now that the idea had taken root, it was very, very hard to deny. 

His legs twined around Steve's hips, caging him in, shirt gripped tight in his metal fist. Steve wouldn't be able to leave easily, but he wasn't trying, eagerly coming closer when Bucky pulled, sliding a hand into his hair, and their mouths slid together again and again, slow and steady like a heartbeat. They were both sporting erections, but they didn't press their hips close, didn't rock together. They just held on and breathed, mouth to mouth until they calmed. Until they were sated where it counted. 

Steve pulled back and looked at Bucky, just taking in his face, smoothing his temples with his thumbs, looking at him like he was a miracle. Bucky supposed in a way, they were. That after everything, they'd still be together now, a hundred years from where they'd started, if not quite the same people in the end. Bucky reached up for another kiss, nibbling a bit and palming Steve’s ass before he let go. He dropped his legs, releasing Steve from their grip. Steve ducked down to press one more soft kiss on his mouth before pulling back. Not an apology. Not a goodbye. A thank you. A promise. 

"Are you ready to go home?"


	9. November

**Part 9**

Turns out being a person was easier than he thought, once he decided what sort of person he wanted to be. His therapist said he didn’t have to figure it out all at once. So he started putting his stamp on the neighborhood. A library card. A Starbucks card. Waving to regulars in the park, getting to know the ones with dogs. Watching the kids skate and breakdance. Clocking the ones who were sneaking in with aerosol cans after dark (and if there were a few discrete bits of artwork here and there in hard-to-reach places with a little interconnected BB in the corner, well. Snitches didn’t go far in life). Sparring with Steve and hiking with Sam.

He discovered the joy of hoodies (they’ve got big pockets!) and the delight of fun sneakers. Bucky spent a little more time on his hair. A little less time wearing shirts. Steve made fun, but Sam looked over each new addition with approval and pride (and maybe a lingering glance) - he understood about looking good and feeling good. There were a lot of things to like about living in the now. 

  * Jess Glynne
  * Board game bars (Steve was both a bad loser AND a bad winner and his cranky face was priceless)
  * Roombas (Sam would give in eventually)
  * Trolling trolls on the internet. 
  * Sam’s face every time he says “yeet”
  * Sending Steve dumb quizzes (He takes all of them. They almost always get the same result.)



Being with Sam was easier than he thought, too. Steve watched them close in on each other like a delighted yenta. Sam was easy to romance, and Bucky knew a thing or two about that. Reddit helped. (Sidenote: Reddit was  _ great! _ ). Conventional wisdom said the way to a man’s heart was his stomach, and being one, he knew this to be absolute truth. If he had to put a definite point on it, he would have to say the homemade gourmet pop tarts were the moment Sam officially fell in love with him (thanks, Bon Appetit), and strawberry-flavored kisses were added to his list of best things. 

“Sam.”

“Ya.”

“Sam.”

“What?”

“Sammy.” Sam finally turned away from his Rocket League game, exasperated. Bucky was doing him a favor - he was getting trounced by a fourteen year old anyhow.

“Listen to this.” He held out one of his earbuds to Sam, stretching the cord. 

Sam looked dubiously at his screen before giving the game up as a loss anyhow and tossing the controller on the sofa. He got up and stood next to the armchair Bucky had been curled up in an accepted the earbud with only a mild side eye. He started the song over from the beginning, ignoring Sam’s very judgy face.

“Buck.”

“Ya.”

“What is this?”

“I dunno, but it’s great.” 

“Is this...Romanian?” 

“Uhura would be ashamed of you. It’s Russian.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s Russian. Did Natasha send you this one?” 

“Nope… But now that you mention it…” Bucky’s tongue stuck out a little as he navigated the menus on the app to add it to the new Spotify playlist he and Natasha had started. (Bucky had called it  _ License to Chill _ . Natasha renamed it  _ License to Ill _ , and Bucky couldn’t argue with that, but he had to consult urban dictionary for “ill”.)

Sam’s head started bobbing despite himself. After a few minutes, Bucky stuck a finger through his belt loop and gently tugged him closer. He swayed over a step and the cord stretched less between their ears. Bucky tugged again and Sam made a bratty face. Then he reached up and curled both palms around his hips, turning him just a bit and pulling Sam down into his lap. He landed very ungently - lots of elbows and hip bones and narrowly-avoided squashing of sensitive bits but Sam permitted himself to be manhandled until he was seated comfortably against Bucky’s chest. 

The song ended and Bucky handed him the phone. Sam grinned and began typing in a name he’d never heard before.

Bucky curled around him and looked over his shoulder, watching him scroll through the artist’s albums before picking one. After a couple minutes, Bucky had only positive feelings for Infected Mushroom. He expressed these by quietly tucking his fingers up underneath Sammy’s shirt. Touching the soft, warm,  _ alive _ skin of his belly. 

“If you even  _ think _ about tickling me, I will end you,” he warned calmly. Bucky hadn’t thought about it  _ until NOW _ (thanks, Sam) but he was gentle, not digging his fingers in. Just touching, soft and exploring. His belly button. The hairs just beneath. His fingertips followed the path downward until he hit the top of Sam’s jeans. He didn’t go underneath, just trailed sideways around the edge, feeling where the fabric dug into him as he was seated. The little tummy rolls that happened when Sam was slouching. He tucked his face into Sam’s neck and breathed in, just holding him there, then wrapped both arms around him and sat back, pulling him to rest completely on him. The weight of him was solid, like Sam. Nice. When the next song was offered to him, he waved it away, passing the choice back to Sam and pressing a little kiss to the juncture of his neck. He was busy. 

They were listening to Ke$ha when Steve came in with the mail. He grinned to see the two of them essentially snuggling in an armchair that was decidedly too small for one soldier and one wingman. 

Steve leans over to give Sam a kiss hello. “You fellas look cozy.” 

“You want in on this action?” 

Steve looks dubiously at the remaining space (none) and shakes his head with a grin. He leans over Sam’s shoulder to press a kiss against Bucky’s mouth, where he’d been waiting, face upturned. “I think a present came for you in the mail, Buck.” 

“Is it my squirrel hand puppet?”

Sam shook the whole chair with the force of his laughter. “You got  _ what?” _

Bucky holds his hand out like a claw to demonstrate. “The head goes here, and then the fingers are the arms and legs.” He waggles his fingers but Sam won’t stop laughing. 

Steve looks bewildered, but honestly, he always kinda looks dumbfounded. He should spend more time on the internet. To be fair, Bucky has been buying a lot of things lately. It’s nice to treat himself, and it’s fun to get things in the mail. 

  * Christmas presents (they are being slowly acquired and hidden in his closet)
  * Thug Kitchen Cookbook
  * Yankee Candle - Mountain Lodge scent
  * A nightlight that slowly rotates through all the colors
  * _Wanderers_ by Chuck Wendig (a Sci-Fi recommendation by Chantel, his Starbucks barista friend)



But this time, Steve hands him an actual letter. “What’s this?” he asks, before he sees the logo in the corner. Then he knows  _ exactly _ what it is. 

He can’t wait to open it, but his hands don’t move. The edge gets a little crumpled by accident. Oops. 

“Well aren’t you gonna open it, Buck?”

“Steve,” he starts, but then his throat chokes up. He hands it to Sam and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his chin over his shoulder again. “You open it,” he mumbles. Sam presses back against him, understanding. He hands Bucky his phone back and tucks a thumb under the seal. Sam’s shirt collar becomes very interesting all of a sudden. Steve is practically vibrating next to the chair, bouncing a little on his toes. Unbidden, the Jeopardy theme song plays through his head, and it makes him angry.  _ What is taking so long?! _

A quick intake of breath make him lift his head to see Sammy’s broad smile before Sam raises his arm and twists around to tuck it behind his head, pulling him in for a big sloppy kiss. His arms tighten and he’s not crying  _ he’s not crying. _

Steve gives in and attempts to climb into the chair with them, kissing the side of Bucky’s face until Sam frees him, and then pressing their lips together. Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s waist where he’s perched on the tortured chair and bites him in the side of his pectoral, where he deserves it. The resulting squeal is very satisfying, until Steve snatches the letter from Sam’s grip and dances backward away from the chair. 

“Dear Jaaaaamessss,” he drawls in a loud teasing voice. “Congratulations!” (Said with exaggerated enthusiasm.) “It is with great pleasure that we offer you admission to the Spring 2018 Semester at George Washington University.” At which point, Steve tosses the letter up in the air like a graduation cap.  _ Holy shit. He was a college student! _

“Holy shit. Sam! Steve! I’m a college student!” 

And the future looked bright. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is not at all the story I intended to write when I began in April. 
> 
> Many thanks to the following: 
> 
> bookjunkiecat for listening to me ramble about what eventually became the very earliest versions of this story. I'm afraid it bears little resemblance now, but I have fond memories of sharing those headcanons. 
> 
> HastaLux for continuous, steady support, unwavering faith, and keeping me supplied with a steady stream of inspiration.
> 
> Meansgirl for reading endless versions of this story as I redrafted and redrafted and redrafted. 
> 
> hoomhumhobbit for being the actual sweetest and best emotional support and writing buddy.
> 
> Come find me on Twitter @Paialovespie. This is the first MCU story I've written, but it surely won't be the last.


End file.
